


Trick or Treat

by justkeeponwriting



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, Guardian Angel Castiel, Kid Fic, M/M, Reincarnation, Uhh the tags kinda give the whole thing away whoops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-02
Updated: 2014-11-02
Packaged: 2018-02-23 06:23:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2537489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justkeeponwriting/pseuds/justkeeponwriting
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Mr. Collins had always been a background figure in his life, someone Dean didn’t have to think about all that much; he was there, and he was odd, but that was it. Dean didn’t spare a single thought for the man until he was forced to."</p><p>In which Dean meets Mr. Collins at the age of five, but gets to know Castiel only when he's twenty-two.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part I

Dean was five years old when his mother first took him to trick or treating. Sammy was nothing but a small bundle of tears and giggles, so mom left Sammy at home to dad’s care. Dean didn’t fully understand the concept of trick or treating, but he understood that he was being Batman and he was going to get candy, so that was awesome. He was happy just to trail behind his mother, go from door to door and flash a smile missing a few teeth to the people who opened the door, and proudly claim “trick or treat!” when his mother prodded him.

They’d been walking for a while now, but Dean wasn’t that tired when they entered an area that was sparsely populated. There was a bit more walking between the houses, but Dean didn’t mind, until his mother pointed at a house far away from everything else.

“We’re going there?” Dean asked. The house stood on a lonely hill, away from all the other houses surrounding it, like it wanted to be alone. “Who lives there?”

“Oh, that’s Mr. Collins’s house,” his mom explained to him. “He’s a nice man, honey. I think he’d be delighted if you went to trick or treat there.”

Dean wasn’t as convinced. Old Mr. Collins must’ve been a weirdo: the house somehow reminded him of a witch’s hut. The house was painted white and blue, and there were a few trees and bushes surrounding the place, but Dean still felt uneasy looking at it. It reminded Dean a bit of the movie he’d caught a glimpse a few nights ago before dad had noticed and changed the channel. At least in the movie going to a house like that hadn’t been a good thing.

His mom nudged him, looking down. “Come on, honey. Do you still want to trick or treat?”

“Yeah,” Dean said. He clutched at his basket and walked close to his mother as they started to trek uphill; his mother placed a hand on his shoulder, and Dean felt a bit more courageous.

“Is he a witch?” Dean asked, timidly.

His mom laughed. “Maybe. You can ask him.”

“His house looks like a witch’s house.”

“Really?”

Dean could hear his mother smiling, and annoyed that mom wasn’t taking him seriously, he huffed and walked on. His mother walked a few steps behind him, and caught up when they reached the porch. Timidly, Dean climbed the few steps and knocked on the door before he could get cold feet.

Mr. Collins opened the door slowly, and at first Dean could only make out a small peek of the black-haired man; then the door swung fully open and Mr. Collins stepped forward.

“Oh, hello.” Mr. Collins glanced at Dean quickly before lifting his gaze to mom. The stern look melted into a tiny smile. “Mrs. Winchester, nice to see you again.”

“Call me Mary, please.” She looked down at Dean. “This is Dean’s first time trick or treating. Say hi, Dean.”

Dean felt uncomfortable under Mr. Collins’s piercing stare. Even if mom didn’t believe him, he thought that Mr. Collins must surely be a witch, because he looked so pale and disheveled. His beard wasn’t as long or scruffy as uncle Bobby’s, but his hair was a mess and he looked tired.

“Hello, Dean,” Mr. Collins said. Dean stared right back at Mr. Collins – he didn’t want to appear intimidated. “How old are you?”

“Five,” Dean muttered. Mr. Collins simply nodded, as if to commit this piece of information to memory. Dean stared at him, and Mr. Collins stared back.

“Are you going to trick or treat me, Dean?” Mr. Collins finally asked, when a moment had passed. Flushing bright red, Dean quickly muttered, “trick or treat?” He had to glance elsewhere as he said it; Mr. Collins smiled at him.

All the people Dean had been trick or treating so far had simply given him candy, so Mr. Collins threw Dean completely off by stating, “Both.”

Dean snapped his gaze back to Mr. Collins, surprised that things weren’t progressing as he’d thought. Mr. Collins leant towards Dean, crouching a bit to reach his level, and then took a bar of chocolate from his back pocket. He showed it to Dean, and Dean’s eyes tried to follow the treat, but then Mr. Collins did something with his hand and the chocolate disappeared.

Dean’s mouth fell open when Mr. Collins presented his empty palms – where’d the chocolate go? Then, Mr. Collins put his left hand behind Dean’s ear, and Dean startled when he pulled the chocolate from there.

Dean’s eyes tracked the chocolate bar, fascinated when Mr. Collins put it in his basket. He could hear the stifled laughter of his mother, but didn’t really care about that right then. Mr. Collins stepped back, nodding at his mother and started to pull the door closed.

“I knew you were a witch,” Dean said quietly. Mr. Collins snorted with amusement, and his eyes shone pale blue when he closed the door.

 

* * *

 

Dean didn’t recall Mr. Collins the next time they met, because it had been a year since he’d seen the man. Dean also didn’t recall it later on, but he had been asking about Mr. Collins from his mother ever since his first trick or treating and Mr. Collins’s magic trick; his mom had gently told him that Mr. Collins kept to himself and didn’t much leave his house, and had had to stifle her laughter when Dean had replied, “well, duh, he’s a witch, why would he leave his house?”

This time, his father was accompanying him and Sam as they went around trick or treating. Sam was only two and tired easily, so their trick or treating was cut short: they only managed to go around a dozen houses before Sammy started to cry, too tired and overwhelmed by the strangeness around him. His father was trying to console Sam, swooping the boy into his arms and gently muttering comfort into Sam’s ear, but Dean didn’t notice that at first and kept walking toward the next house in the row. When he soon noticed that they weren’t following him, he stopped, unsure of what he should do; he could still see them, but he didn’t dare go farther, even if he really wanted to go and ring the next house’s doorbell. He stood on the sidewalk, looking at his father and Sammy, and didn’t hear when someone approached him.

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean startled. He looked up and saw a pair of piercing blue eyes looking down at him. The man was dressed in a suit and a long coat, and was carrying a bag that hung from his left arm. Dean stared at the stranger, his mouth falling open, but he didn’t say anything.

“Ah.” The man nodded, his lips curving into a sad smile. “You don’t remember me. Of course.”

Dean didn’t say anything, because he really didn’t know what to say. His mom and dad had always warned about talking to strangers, but there was something familiar about this man, even if Dean didn’t think this man was a friend of his parents.

“Sorry,” Dean finally said.

“That’s alright,” the man said. “I’m used to it.”

The man straightened his back, then, and looked behind Dean. His father, carrying Sam on his shoulders, came to join them, and greeted the man with a handshake.

“Mr. Collins.”

“Hello, Mr. Winchester.”

Dean stared at their handshake from under their hands, feeling odd, like he should’ve remembered something about Mr. Collins, but he couldn’t. His father and Mr. Collins talked for a bit – something about Halloween and the neighborhood and something about repairing things, and Dean lost interest, his gaze drifting to the other kids on the street and their costumes. When Sammy started to fidget, dad said goodbye to Mr. Collins and nudged Dean.

“Well, happy Halloween, Mr. Collins.”

“Happy Halloween.” Mr. Collins smiled, turning to the other direction. Dean stared after him, still somewhat confused by the strange man.

Mr. Collins noticed Dean’s look and smiled; then he suddenly pulled a lollipop out of thin air, and quickly put it in Dean’s basket before Dean could walk away. Suddenly, Dean remembered that Mr. Collins was the witch by the hill, and everything made more sense. He glanced after the man, curious, before running after his father and Sammy.

 

* * *

 

Dean did see Mr. Collins somewhat regularly after that, so much that the man left an impression on his young mind. Quite soon some of his misconceptions about Mr. Collins cleaned up, much to Dean’s disappointment: it turned out that even witches had to go grocery shopping. Dean and his mom ran into Mr. Collins a few times in the store, and each time, Mr. Collins would greet Dean with that weird, piercing look. Sometimes, he would magically conjure up chocolate or lollipops or Gummi bears from different places, like Dean’s pockets or behind his ears. Sometimes, Dean would ask him to do that, and he’d smile apologetically and tell him no, but wouldn’t give Dean any reason why. Dean started to insist that Mr. Collins’s magic powers weren’t very good, then, and Mr. Collins simply laughed at that, not at all hurt by Dean’s accusations.

When he was seven, his dad gave into Dean’s insistence that he was old enough to walk a bit more on his own, so when they went to trick or treating that year, his dad simply waited by the sidewalk as Dean and Sam went to ring the doorbells. Dean felt especially proud when his father let him and Sammy walk all on their own up to the hill where Mr. Collins lived. The house, the trees and the bushes still felt a bit creepy, but Dean refused to show it, especially when Sammy was holding his hand so tightly.

“Dean,” Sam whined when they stepped on the porch, “I don’t wanna be eaten.”

“Why would we be eaten?” Dean asked, trying to sound reasonable, although Sam’s question was ridiculous.

“He’s a witch. Witches eat people.”

“He doesn’t eat people, silly. That’s only in stories.”

Sammy didn’t look convinced, and let Dean knock on the door. The door opened almost immediately.

“Oh,” Mr. Collins said when he opened the door. His eyes brushed over Dean like he’d been expecting visitors, and his lips curved into a tiny smile. “Hello, Dean.”

Dean stared at old Mr. Collins and didn’t know what to say. Mr. Collins smiled at him, gently, and it didn’t feel weird, but Dean sort of felt like when grandma and granddad came to visit them and looked him up and down before saying, “My, how you’ve grown!”

Mr. Collins took his hand off the door, letting the door slide open fully. “How old are you now, Dean?”

“I’m seven,” Dean proudly said. Sam, who was still hiding behind him, clutched at Dean’s coat, and startled, Dean turned to Sam. “This is Sam. He’s three.”

Mr. Collins nodded at them both, but didn’t say any of the usual stuff grownups usually did – such as “so you’re a big boy already” or “oh, you’re already in school, then.” His eyes were pale and searching, although Dean couldn’t imagine what he was trying to look for. Witches were weird, even fake witches.

Sam hid behind his bag of treats, timidly, and that’s what kicked Dean into action.

“He knows magic,” Dean said. “Look, Sammy!”

As if on cue, Mr. Collins leant down and conjured up a chocolate bar from behind Sam’s ear. Sam stared at it, absolutely flabbergasted, until his face broke into a delighted laughter.

“Do it again! Do it again!” he squealed, and his eyes tracked the movement as Mr. Collins took a similar chocolate bar from behind Dean’s ear. “Do another trick!”

“I’m afraid that’s the only trick I know,” Mr. Collins said.

“You need to practice more,” Dean said. “You’ll never be a good witch otherwise.”

“Ah.” Mr. Collins straightened his back and watched as they stored the candy in their bags. “So, does everybody know I’m a witch, then?”

“We can keep it a secret,” Sammy solemnly said, and Dean nodded.

Mr. Collins merely smiled at that, wished them a happy Halloween and closed the door. It didn’t escape Dean’s notice that he hadn’t exactly denied being a witch, though.

 

* * *

 

It was somewhat inevitable, but after seeing Mr. Collins’s magic trick, Sammy became enraptured with magic. Dean was old enough to understand that it was only stage magic, that it wasn’t really real (though that didn’t stop him from wondering if Mr. Collins was only pretending to do fake magic to cover up that he could actually do real magic), but Sammy wanted to see more magic, so that was what Dean set out to do. With his mother’s help, he borrowed a _Guide to Magic For Beginners_ from library, and started to learn some easy coin and card tricks. Sam loved them, especially the ones where things disappeared and appeared somewhere else, and his mother and father were amused by the tricks, too. On his eight birthday, he performed a magic show, complete with a magician’s cloak and a wand his mother had made for him. Sammy, his parents, uncle Bobby, aunt Ellen and uncle Bill all clapped their hands with enthusiasm, but little Jo was too small to do anything but sleep through his performance.

They were just about to eat the cake, when the doorbell rang. Dean was playing tag with Sam, running in between the chairs and couch, but when he heard the rumbling voice from the doorway and his mother’s eager response, he perked up and left the living room.

“…didn’t expect these back so quickly. You’re a fast reader.”

“They were very entertaining. Thank you for the recommendation. …you’re having guests.”

“It’s Dean’s birthday,” his mother was saying to Mr. Collins when Dean peeked at the hallway. The outer door was shut, but Mr. Collins stood in the hallway with his coat on and his hands in his pockets, like he didn’t want to come in at all. “He’s turning eight.”

“Oh, I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to intrude.”

“No, no, it’s no trouble. We were just about to eat the cake, do you want to join us?”

“I’m not sure…” Mr. Collins saw Dean peeking from behind the living room entry, then, and gave a smile in greeting. Encouraged, Dean leapt into the hallway.

“Hey, Mr. Collins! Look what I can do now!”

Mr. Collins’s eyes flashed with something when he saw the cloak swoosh behind Dean. Dean had left his wand in the living room, but he didn’t need it for the coin and scarf trick he did – quickly, he presented the coin, before covering it with a silk scarf (courtesy of his mother’s) and making it disappear.

Mr. Collins stared at Dean’s trick, his eyes following Dean’s each move with a focus Dean hadn’t expected. But despite the staring, there was something strange about Mr. Collins’s look. Dean wasn’t an idiot: he knew when adults were just pretending to be interested or happy, although they really wanted to be somewhere else. Mr. Collins was clearly biting his lip in a way that immediately told Dean that right then, he would’ve wanted to be anywhere else than here.

“That’s wonderful, Dean,” Mr. Collins told him, but Dean didn’t miss the pain in his eyes and the way he had to force the words out. Mr. Collins smiled tightly at him, and then turned to his mother. “Thank you for the invitation, Mrs. Winchester, but I think I’d better be off.” His eyes passed Dean one last time before he quickly pocketed his hands and looked away. “Happy birthday, Dean.”

Dean never did magic tricks again, and Mr. Collins stopped doing them, too.


	2. Part II

“Hello, Dean.”

“Who the f—Oh. Um. Hi, Mr. Collins.”

Guiltily, Dean hid the cigarette behind his back, although he knew very well that the gesture wouldn’t go unnoticed by Mr. Collins, not by a long shot. Though Dean had long since outgrown his childish ideas about the man being a witch, his old neighbor still managed to give him the creeps. (Though, with all those slights of hand and managing to sneak up on people and not leaving his house unless it seemed absolutely necessary, who could blame younger Dean’s train of thought?) Mr. Collins was authoritative without needing to ever raise his voice, and Dean could just sense the disappointment in his eyes when Dean quickly hid the cigarette.

He’d thought that he’d be safe in the woods, off the main road, and with him skipping the stupid afternoon lessons, he’d thought that no one would even see him. The woods were situated quite near Dean’s home, on his way to school, and usually, the only ones who walked there were other neighborhood kids taking the shortcut to school – but apparently Dean wasn’t the only one who liked to have a break from humanity there. Maybe this was where Mr. Collins spent all his time – and that actually would make sense, Dean mused, Mr. Collins roaming around the edges of the town and the woods and avoiding humanity. He seemed like the type to do that.

Mr. Collins simply put his hands in the pockets of that ever-present, silly trench coat, eyeing Dean with a concentration that made Dean a bit uncomfortable. He’d known Mr. Collins for so long that he wasn’t afraid of the man, not really, but he still wasn’t familiar with the man other than in passing. He saw the man sometimes, when he came round to return books to his mom, and he knew that his mom visited Mr. Collins’s strange, lonely house to do the same, but that was basically it.

“How old are you now, Dean?”

“Thirteen,” Dean muttered. Mr. Collins didn’t say anything, but Dean still felt like his face was on fire. The poorly hidden cigarette behind his back felt suddenly so heavy that he almost dropped it.

“I just wanted to try,” Dean mumbled then, when Mr. Collins still didn’t say anything. The explanation wouldn’t have flown with his parents, and he was sure it wouldn’t fly with Mr. Collins, either, but he couldn’t come up with anything better. “Save the lecture about health hazards, I know, I know. We had a presentation about that last week in school.”

“I wasn’t going to lecture you.”

Dean eyed the man suspiciously. “You weren’t?”

“I’ve never understood why people are that insistent on poisoning themselves, but that is their right, I suppose.”

A hot flash of shame filtered through Dean.

“What, you wanna see a magic trick?” Dean snapped. He dumped the cigarette on the ground and stepped on it. “Ta-dah, it’s gone.”

Mr. Collins didn’t look impressed. “You can do better than that, Dean,” he said before turning his back and walking away like nothing had ever happened.

And the son of a bitch was, even if Dean didn’t want to listen to some crazy old neighbor’s random pearls of wisdom, he felt compelled to dump the unfinished pack of cigarettes in the trash on his way home.

 

* * *

 

Mr. Collins had been an old man when Dean had first started to trick or treat, but when Dean did that for the last time when he was fourteen – Sammy insisted, so of course Dean went along – Mr. Collins didn’t seem that old, actually. Dean thought that maybe this was that phenomenon he’d heard his parents talk about so often: all people from twenty to thirty looked alike, or something, so maybe Dean, too, had misjudged Mr. Collins’s age. In fact, Mr. Collins looked the same as he always did: there wasn’t a single white hair among the black strands, and the wrinkles and bags under his eyes looked like the same exhaustion his dad usually had after work. Dean couldn’t decide how old Mr. Collins looked like. He seemed sort of ageless; he could’ve been anywhere between his 30s and 60s, and Dean couldn’t have told the difference.

“Happy Halloween,” Dean mumbled after Sammy had received his candy. Dean felt like he was too old for trick or treating, so he was simply supervising Sammy and not collecting candy of his own – wasn’t even in a costume – but Mr. Collins offered him a chocolate bar as well.

Dean tried to protest, but Mr. Collins simply said, “I insist,” and that was it. Dean crammed the chocolate in his jacket pocket and mumbled his thanks. Mr. Collins’s eyes lit up and he smiled a bit, and for some reason, that made Dean even more embarrassed.

Dean’s gaze wandered from Mr. Collins’s bright blue eyes lower, and fixed on the stain on his right cheek. He hesitated a moment before pointing it out.

“You’ve got a little something there.”

“Hm?” Mr. Collins seemed surprised when he brought his hand to his cheek, and watched with fascination as the smudge spread to his palm. “Oh. Thank you. The pen must’ve leaked again.”

Dean blinked. Pen? Did Mr. Collins seriously use ink pens? Or worse, did he write his letters with a quill?

Sam nudged Dean right then. “Dean, can we go?”

“Oh. Um. Right.” Dean spared Mr. Collins one last look, and Mr. Collins nodded back, apparently amused by Sam’s whining. “Bye, Mr. Collins.”

“Goodbye, Dean.” The words felt heavy in the air, and weirded out, Dean turned to look at Mr. Collins over his shoulder as Sam dragged him away from the porch. All he could see was the front door closing, and for the first time, he wondered who the hell Mr. Collins actually was.

He wasn’t prepared to hear his mom’s answer to that, though.

“He’s a what?”

His mother was kneading the dough, missing the double-take Dean had just done. “A lepidopterist. He’s written several books about butterflies.”

“Butterflies?” Dean repeated, flabbergasted. Well, that certainly explained why the old man never left his house, if he could just sit in his study and write about freaking _butterflies_ all day long.

His mother continued kneading, leaning heavily on the kitchen table. Dean pulled his math book towards himself to protect it from stains.

“He’s traveled excessively, all around the globe. And he has some absolutely stunning pictures from the time he spent three months in Japan.”

That, however, didn’t fit the picture Dean had. He furrowed his brows. “But he never leaves his house.”

His mom laughed. “Of course he does, honey.” Her eyes sparkled. “Or do you still think he’s a witch who just magically makes everything he needs out of thin air?”

“I dunno, he seems like the type,” Dean said, making his mom laugh again.

Dean couldn’t deny, however, that the next time he biked by the hill where Mr. Collins lived, his eyes lingered on the house and its mysterious occupant.

 

* * *

 

It was beyond odd to see Mr. Collins sit in their living room. During his fifteen years of living and knowing Mr. Collins for more of those years than not, Dean couldn’t recall seeing Mr. Collins actually visit their house. He’d seen his mom and dad talk to him often, but that was always in the store, on the street, or by the door. It was almost as if Mr. Collins didn’t want to come in to their house, and from the way he awkwardly shifted in the chair and fumbled with his tie, it was apparent that he felt very uncomfortable being there.

Dean couldn’t have cared less. He had had a long day with the baseball practice running late and not understanding his math homework that he still needed to complete, so all he cared right then was the fact that there was a visitor, ergo, mom had made pie. Mr. Collins could fidget and finger his teacup with shaking hands for all Dean cared, he just wanted some pie and a long shower and go to bed and sleep until all the stress melted away.

His dad and Mr. Collins were talking about some renovation thing and dad’s garage, and mom was saying something in between, but Dean wasn’t listening. Sammy had already been excused from the table – the little freak didn’t even care about the pie that much, but Dean didn’t feel too insulted on his mom’s behalf, because it meant that there was more pie for Dean to eat. Dean was too busy stuffing the pie into his mouth to notice that suddenly his dad left from the table – in search of something or other – and his mom stood up and went to the kitchen to fetch something as well.

Suddenly, Dean was all too aware of sitting opposite from Mr. Collins, who was still sipping his tea with slightly shaky hands. Dean swallowed the pie with some difficulty and avoided looking straight at Mr. Collins. Talk about awkward: Dean had nothing to say, and he doubted Mr. Collins had anything to say, either.

“So,” Dean finally said, when it was clear that Mr. Collins wasn’t going to initiate conversation, “you have any magic tricks up your sleeve?”

It was almost invisible, but Mr. Collins’s lips did probably twitch with amusement. “Not at the moment, no.”

“What, you’re not gonna make the pie disappear?”

“I think you’re doing a much better job at that,” Mr. Collins remarked. Dean looked up, confused, before he realized that that had been a joke. He’d never met anyone with a better poker-face than Mr. Collins, and while he could (probably) read it, the dude was weirdly non-expressive.

Mr. Collins took a sip of his tea, looking at Dean over the rim of the cup, and Dean was momentarily transported back to being seven years old and remembering how odd it felt to be under that piercing gaze. Mr. Collins kept looking at him like Dean was the mystery.

“Magic is for little kids,” Dean muttered, feeling petty just for the sake of being petty.

“You didn’t seem to mind my magic tricks back then.”

“You kept offering me candy, dude. And no offense, but outside of Halloween, that’s a little creepy.”

“I did ask your parents’ permission for that,” Mr. Collins said, eyes still twinkling. Dean had a vague feeling that he was being made fun of, though he wasn’t exactly sure how. It dawned to him that even when Mr. Collins wasn’t doing anything, Dean still felt awed and cheated alike, just like back when he’d been seven and desperately trying to figure out where the disappearing candy went.

“Whatever,” Dean mumbled. He finished his pie and slammed his fork on the table just as his mom came back, carrying the teapot. “I’m done. Thanks, mom.”

He wasn’t exactly clear on why some old, random neighbor got under his skin like that, but he wasn’t going to sit down and think about that.


	3. Part III

Dean was twenty-two when he happened to talk to Mr. Collins again. He’d obviously seen Mr. Collins around before that, because he still frequented the same grocery store, and his mom liked to have Mr. Collins come over and talk about books, but that hadn’t affected Dean much. Those few times Dean had seen the old neighbor, they’d just sat in the same table, with Dean stuffing his face with pie and Mr. Collins fidgeting with his teacup and talking with mom and dad. After he’d left to college, Dean hadn’t seen a glimpse of the man, and he didn’t even realize that, because why would he? Mr. Collins had always been a background figure in his life, someone Dean didn’t have to think about all that much; he was there, and he was odd, but that was it. Dean didn’t spare a single thought for the man until he was forced to.

Dean had been working in the library for two weeks before the familiar face appeared in front of his desk. Mr. Collins looked just as he’d looked all throughout the years; it was as if he hadn’t changed at all between Dean leaving to college and graduating. And in all fairness, four years probably didn’t make much of a difference to someone of Mr. Collins’s age.

“Hi, Mr. Collins,” Dean greeted when the man approached his desk and put down the pile of books. “Long time no see.”

“Dean.” Mr. Collins looked delighted, though it was hard to tell. The man still had the most non-expressive face Dean had ever seen. “You remember me.”

“Uh, of course,” Dean said. He blinked at the tiny smile that made its way to Mr. Collins’s face.

“Welcome home. And congratulations for graduating, of course.”

“Uh, thanks,” Dean grinned.

“Are you here to stay?”

“Dunno,” Dean shrugged. He took the first book on the pile and scanned it. “For now, at least. Got a full-time job here.”

Dean wasn’t sure what to talk about with an old neighbor, so he was glad to have something to do with his hands. He scanned the books and pushed them towards Mr. Collins, who efficiently packed them in his weary bag. Dean vaguely recognized it; he wouldn’t have been surprised if Mr. Collins had been carrying the same shoulder bag for all these years.

“So, uh,” Dean said, not sure why he wanted to continue the discussion but feeling the need for it, “you still live in the same house?”

Mr. Collins’s eyes twinkled. “In the old witch’s house, yes.”

“You’re never going to let go of that, are you,” Dean said, but he almost laughed. “I was five, man. And no offense, but your house is like straight out from a fairy-tale.”

“Really?” Mr. Collins though about this for a moment, and then nodded, solemnly. “Perhaps I can see a bit of resemblance. It is situated in a lonely place and it is old. But I can assure you that I don’t have any cauldrons or brooms lying around.”

“Wouldn’t know. I’ve never been inside,” Dean said.

Mr. Collins opened his mouth, possibly to invite Dean over – and that’s when they both realized that this was heading towards a weird territory. Mr. Collins hurriedly closed his mouth, and Dean was left feeling oddly disappointed at that, and then confused, because he had no idea why he was disappointed. They stared at each other for a second, before Dean cleared his throat.

“Well, it was nice seeing you, Mr. Collins,” Dean said.

The look Mr. Collins gave him was exasperated. “Dean. Please call me Castiel; ‘Mr. Collins’ makes me feel so old.”

“Old, huh.” Dean grinned. “Well, see you around, Castiel.”

Castiel only nodded at him, with a strangely pleased smile on his face.

 

* * *

 

It only occurred Dean later that perhaps Mr. Collins – or Castiel, as he insisted – was lonely. Castiel spent a lot of his time in the library, which made Dean also retroactively realize that maybe this was the reason why he’d never seen Castiel in the town, which, in all honesty, was so small that you were bound to run into the same people over and over again. If Castiel wasn’t at his house, he was at the library. Growing up, Dean had avoided the library like plague, until something had clicked in his head and he’d actually started to read and went on to eventually major in English, but even then, he’d preferred the school’s library or just picked volumes from his mom’s collection. Funnily, Castiel was probably more familiar with the layout of the library than Dean was.

Castiel never did things by halves. Either he didn’t show up at all, or then he sat in the corner, reading and writing for almost twelve hours straight. He usually arrived in the morning, dropped off the books he’d borrowed, then made his way to the shelves to pick something new, and then sat down in the corner and started to write in his little black notebook. He only stopped to leaf the books that collected around him, or to retrieve another book. He wasn’t unfriendly to those who came by to talk to him, though, which was precisely why Dean thought that perhaps Castiel was starved for human interaction and sought it in his own way. At least, Dean hadn’t noticed a ring on Castiel’s finger, nor had he ever heard his parents or anyone mention that Castiel had any kind of family, and it didn’t seem like the man had any kind of friends, either. He seemed to know a lot of people, but from the bits that Dean overheard, it was easy to tell that Castiel kept most people at arm’s length.

The fifth day Dean had seen Castiel come to the library, he decided to take initiative. They’d greeted each other, but that had been it, and Dean found himself curious. He wheeled the cart full of returned books to the section where Castiel sat, so that he had a reason to be there.

Castiel had been sitting in the same place for four hours at this point, and didn’t show signs of stopping when Dean started to put back the books to the shelf next to Castiel’s desk.

“You really should take a break,” Dean commented. “Uh, Castiel,” he added, a bit awkwardly, as he’d started to say “Mr. Collins” but then remembered at the last second Castiel’s request.

Castiel lifted his head from the book he’d been reading, blinking in Dean’s direction. “Oh.” His eyes focused on Dean. “What time is it?”

“Twelve,” Dean said, not bothering to check his watch. He’d looked at it just before coming here. “Time for a lunch break, don’t you think?”

“I suppose you’re right.” Castiel closed the book he’d been reading. He started to collect his things, so slowly and cautiously that it almost made Dean laugh. Dean knew it was childish, but based on his childhood memories, he’d almost expected that Castiel would just disappear into thin air and re-appear five minutes later with a sandwich.

“What, you’re not gonna do a disappearance trick on me?” Dean joked.

Castiel smiled. “I haven’t done magic tricks in a while, Dean.”

“Wow, I’m disappointed,” Dean said. “You always seemed to like to do them for me.”

“You didn’t like them?” Castiel asked, looking genuinely curious.

“Well, I mean I liked them, but still. Why’d you do that, anyway?”

“Hm.” Castiel nodded. “A hang-up from previous life, actually. You—I used to be a magician.”

Dean hadn’t expected that. “Really?”

Castiel nodded. Then his eyes seemed to harden, and he awkwardly added, “I should go. I’ll see you later, Dean.”

He gathered the rest of his things and walked away so fast that it was almost as if he had really performed a disappearing act. Dean furrowed his brows after Castiel, but went back to work. He did grow a bit concerned when Castiel never came back that day, but then he shrugged it off; he wasn’t the old man’s keeper.

Castiel showed up the next day. Dean almost laughed at the way he took his place in the corner table and carefully spread out the same books and pens like he’d just returned from the lunch break he’d gone the day before, not like he’d been away for twenty-four hours.

Once again, Dean wasn’t sure why he wanted to speak to Castiel, but he found himself absurdly glad when his old neighbor came to his desk around noon to check out books.

Castiel placed the stack on the desk and peered into Dean’s eyes. “Hello, Dean.”

“Oh, hi, Castiel,” Dean said. He glanced at the clock on the wall. “You’re going out early today.”

“Oh. I was too distracted to work today.” He showed the first book on the pile, and Dean’s eyebrows shot up when he saw the title.

“ _Emma_?” Dean took the book and scanned it. “Didn’t take you for the type to read romance novels.”

“Have you ever read Austen’s work?” Castiel was smiling gently, but there was a hint of amusement in his voice that immediately let Dean know that this was probably an argument Castiel had had to go through many times. “Her works would probably be categorized as romance within the popular culture, but they’re also very astute satires and observations of the social situation of the time.”

“I’ve never read Austen, actually,” Dean confessed. “Somehow avoided that all through college. I’ve seen the _Pride and Prejudice_ TV series, though.” He didn’t add that his girlfriend of the time had forced him to sit through it. And he definitely didn’t add that despite being forced to watch it, he’d actually liked it.

“It is excellent as a book. If you want, I could borrow that for you,” Castiel said. “I have the first edition.”

“First edition?” Dean blinked. “How’d you get your hands on something like that? Wait, no—I don’t wanna know how much that cost.”

“It was a gift, actually,” Castiel said. He was smiling, but there seemed to be something in his eyes, because he kept blinking rapidly. “You’re welcome to borrow it. If you’re interested, that is.”

Dean didn’t know what kind of spell Castiel put on him that moment, but he found himself agreeing. “Sure,” he said, “can I come around later?”

“Come when you can. I’ll be home all evening,” Castiel said, and it was probably Dean’s imagination, but there seemed to be a little humor in that sentence.

“I need to lock up this place, but I’ll probably be there after eight,” Dean said.

“I’ll see you then,” Castiel said. He put the books carefully in his bag – it still amused Dean that despite the books already being tattered because of all the hands that had handled them, Castiel always treated each and every book like it was a precious artifact that should be handled with care.

“See you later,” Dean said when Castiel slung the bag on his shoulder. Castiel smiled at him, and as Dean stared at Castiel’s retreating back, he wondered what on earth he was doing.

The bike-ride from the library to Castiel’s witch hut was nostalgic in its own way. Dean had been back in the town for a few months now, and while he did own a car, he sometimes preferred to use his bike to get around; he saw more that way, and besides, it was very useful for short rides. (Sam had collapsed into a heap of laughter when Dean had revealed during one of their marathon phone calls that he’d bought a brand new bike to get around, because when he’d been younger, even pulling a gun on him wouldn’t have made him choose a bike ride over his dad’s glorious Impala. Moving back to a small town where practically everything important was a small walk away had made him reconsider his views, to Sam’s eternal delight.)

It was somewhat underwhelming when he arrived at Castiel’s house. In his mind, the old house was tattered, oozing mystery and loneliness, but when he saw the house again, it was just that: a house. The blue and white painting hadn’t changed, although it was obvious that the house had been repainted a few years back, and the bushes the garden that surrounded the house were well kept. Dean smiled at himself when he stepped on the porch – it was a lot smaller than he recalled, but he should’ve expected that, as he’d last stood there when he’d been fourteen. Dimensions and heights seemed to change a lot when you grew up.

Castiel opened the door before Dean could ring the bell, and surprised, Dean took a step back. It felt odd to look Castiel in the eye – in fact, he was a bit taller than Castiel now, though in his mind he was still five, staring up at the man in wonder.

Castiel seemed to instantly follow where Dean’s mind had gone, because the corner of his mouth twitched, although he didn’t say anything.

“Come on in.”

“Do you have a sixth sense?” Dean asked as he stepped in. “Or do you see people’s auras?”

Castiel blinked, but then he understood the joke. “I have the power of perception,” Castiel said, leading Dean into the living room.

“What’s that?”

“I saw you from the kitchen window.”

Dean snorted with laughter.

Dean got a quick glance as they passed by the kitchen: it probably hadn’t been updated since the early 70s, judging by the clashing color scheme in the cupboards and the walls. The living room, on the other hand, looked more modern: the sofa and the two chairs were dark brown leather, and the coffee table was teak, making the room seem very calm with the muted colors. There was an enormous bookshelf that filled the back wall, and on the left, under the stairs, a piano, to Dean’s surprise. The TV, at least, was modern and huge, but it oddly blended in well with everything else.

Dean awkwardly stood in the middle of the living room, his gaze darting between the DVDs carefully stacked under the TV and framed butterflies on the walls. Dean realized that he had absolutely no idea what he was doing. He’d followed some odd instinct and accepted Castiel’s invitation, but now that he was actually there, he couldn’t think of anything to say. What on earth did he even have in common with a butterfly researcher who was probably… maybe… 30 years older than him?

Castiel either miraculously saw the problem and set out to solve it immediately, or then he just said something for the sake of saying something and accidentally solved it. He turned to his bookshelf and beckoned Dean to come closer, pulling out a book.

“I believe this is what you wanted to borrow,” he said, handing Dean the book. Castiel hadn’t been lying; the _Pride and Prejudice_ Dean held in his hands really was from 1813, and while it had obviously been read several times, it was in great condition. The realization that he could potentially be holding over 100,000 dollars in his hands made Dean almost drop the book. When Castiel had said back in the library that he could loan Dean a book from the freaking 1800s, Dean hadn’t really understood that he’d meant exactly what he had said – he hadn’t been exaggerating, or lying.

“I feel like I shouldn’t even breathe in its direction,” Dean joked. He very carefully put the book back in its place. “I… I can’t really borrow this, Castiel.”

Castiel blinked at him. “Why not?”

“I would be forever in debt if I broke that.”

“It’s only a book, Dean,” Castiel said, and it was Dean’s turn to stare. Did Castiel really not understand the book’s value?

“A book that costs more than my student loans,” Dean muttered. “Is this a hobby, or what? Collecting old books?”

“Something like that,” Castiel said, turning back to the books. Dean let his eyes wander in the titles, his eyes widening when he spotted several famous books, and judging by the cover, easily as old as the _Pride and Prejudice_. The titles ranged from canon classics to more obscure ones concerning butterflies and, oddly, bees. Dean picked a book at random and carefully took it out.

“ _Wieland, Or: The Transformation_ ,” Dean read. He peeked at the publication date and almost dropped the book – it was, again, first edition, from 1798. He carefully put it back in.

“These should be glass cases,” Dean muttered.

“Books are meant to be read,” Castiel said, clearly baffled by this. “Why would I want to lock them up?”

“No, no, I just meant… There are really valuable.” Which was the understatement of the century. “Aren’t you worried they’re gonna fall apart?”

“They’re just books, Dean,” Castiel said, sounding amused. “I keep them more for the memories and less for the content.”

Dean recalled Castiel saying that the first edition of _Pride and Prejudice_ had been a gift, and he wondered if all the other rare books had been gifts as well. What kind of friends – or relatives – did Castiel have?

“So are all of these gifts?” Dean asked, curiosity overtaking him.

“Some of them,” Castiel said, turning away from the bookshelf as if it had suddenly lost all of his interest. Deciding to push his luck, Dean asked:

“From whom?”

“Just… someone I used to know,” Castiel said. He looked sad for a moment. “You studied English, didn’t you?”

The topic change was so sudden that Dean took it as an obvious sign to stop prodding. They talked for a while about Dean’s college days – or rather, Dean talked, and Castiel listened, although he seemed happy to let Dean do all the talking and was content at only asking questions about Dean’s friends, his awful roommate, his professors and so on. After the awkwardness of the first minute or so, Dean realized that talking with Castiel was actually easy. In return, Castiel told Dean about his work – Dean learned that there was a whole new world concerning butterfly traps and different scents to attract them – and even showed Dean the collection of butterflies he had upstairs, in a special drawer. It was actually kind of funny, trying to match this new, enthusiastic Castiel with the picture of enigmatic loner Dean had always had of him.

“So why butterflies?” Dean asked when they were descending the stairs to the living room again.

“You don’t think them as fascinating creatures?” Castiel asked. His mouth quirked, letting Dean know that this was something he was probably asked a lot.

“Well, yeah, they’re… pretty,” Dean said, lamely, and then refused to flush from embarrassment, “but don’t you ever get bored of, I don’t know, writing about them?”

Castiel thought for a while. “Admittedly, sometimes. Which is why I have other side-projects.”

“Is that what you do in the library?” Dean asked, but again, Castiel gave him that odd, half-smile and dodged the answer.

“Would you like some tea?” Castiel asked, and while Dean didn’t usually drink tea, he found himself agreeing.

“When was the last time you renovated?” Dean joked when Castiel dug around for cups. While the kitchen was in pristine condition, it was obviously a product of the 70s. The tiles were black and the cupboards dark brown, making it look rather stuffy.

“I haven’t,” Castiel answered. “The house is in the exact same condition when I bought it.”

“How long’s that been?” Dean asked – and though he’d almost predicted it, it still confused him when Castiel simply smiled a bit at him and resumed making the tea, ignoring Dean’s question. Dean tried a different tactic.

“You don’t like change?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Castiel said. “I simply like old things.”

“Please tell me you’ve seen a movie since the 1970s.”

“I’ll say nothing and won’t disappoint you, then,” Castiel said, but the corner of his mouth twitched, and Dean understood that it was a joke.

“I sense a great disturbance in the force,” Dean said, shaking his head. Castiel looked at him blankly, and Dean added, “ _Star Wars_? Really?”

“Oh,” Castiel said. He poured tea for them. “I’ve heard of it, but I haven’t seen it.”

“Three movies you need in your life,” Dean said. “I have them on DVD,” he then mused out loud, “if you wanna watch them some time.”

Castiel smiled. “I’d be delighted.”

 

* * *

 

The next day, Castiel showed up to the library and greeted Dean in the morning in his usual manner, and sat down in the corner, surrounded himself with books and started to write in his black notebook like always. Dean shook his head, amused, and went back to work.

Dean didn’t really know what the protocol was in situations like this, so he simply waited until Castiel came to return books after eight hours of sitting in the corner. On the top of the pile was _Emma_ , which made Dean snort.

“You’re a fast reader,” he commented.

“I’ve read it a few times before,” Castiel said.

There was a silence, and while Dean was usually far from shy, he still felt a bit odd about talking to Castiel like they were headed for friendship, so he mentally rearranged the words in his head before finally saying, “Er, so about that… _Star Wars_ … movie… watching…”

Apparently, talking to older men reverted him to being a teenager.

“Oh, yes,” Castiel said, nodding as if mentally checking his calendar. He pushed another pile of books towards Dean, this time to loan them. “Is tomorrow a good day for you?”

The next day was Saturday, and Dean didn’t have anything planned, apart from visiting his mom and dad, so he agreed. Again, it turned out the awkwardness disappeared in exactly one minute after Dean arrived at Castiel’s – while watching the movie, Dean found himself talking with Castiel so much between lines that they had to sometimes put the movie on pause, lest Castiel miss it completely. It was really not how Dean would’ve introduced one of his favorite movies to anyone, but with Castiel, it just seemed to work. Castiel was fascinated with Dean’s knowledge of the movie’s background and trivia of it, and Dean almost felt embarrassed at how much he talked over the movie.

“I don’t mind,” Castiel said when they finally finished the movie – that had taken them an hour and a half longer than it should’ve. “I think people look their best when their talking about something they really enjoy. It makes them glow.”

“Wow, Cas, you really know how to flatter a guy,” Dean said. Then he froze – he hadn’t meant it to come out so flirty, but obviously, that’s what it sounded like.

Castiel didn’t seem to notice. He picked up their plates and glasses from the coffee table and walked to the kitchen, and Dean followed him. Dean stopped dead on his tracks when he noticed Castiel put the plates in the sink.

“You don’t have a dishwasher.”

“No.”

“No, seriously,” Dean repeated, “you’ve lived here for how long and you don’t own a dishwasher? Why?”

“I prefer to wash things by hand,” Castiel said, like it was the norm and Dean was being the odd one. It also crossed Dean’s mind how Castiel was once again cleverly skirting around the underlying topic, but he let it lie.

“Right,” Dean said. “How do you still have skin left in your fingers?”

“I’m hardly going to run out of new skin,” Castiel said, clearly amused.

And that was how Dean found himself elbow deep in bubbles, carefully removing crumbs from a china plate – the plate was antique, with a pretty blue flower pattern on the rim, and it probably cost more than Dean’s whole cutlery – and only when he was already washing the plates, did it cross Dean’s mind how odd this whole situation was. There he was, on a Saturday night, voluntarily washing an older neighbor’s plates, and oddly enough, enjoying it.

There was something weird about Castiel that just made things like this happen, Dean supposed. Castiel had an odd aura around him, sort of magnetic pull that erased every bit of awkwardness or uncertainty Dean felt – mostly because Castiel himself didn’t seem to even notice that most of the time. Castiel didn’t think it odd that when they watched movies, he often asked for Dean’s running commentary on them. Castiel didn’t think it odd that Dean wanted to know what he loaned from the library and what he thought about the books. Castiel didn’t think it odd that they went for long walks in the woods when Dean wanted to get to know the area again, after being gone for four years; everything seemed oddly natural and simple with him.

“I’ve been away for four years and nothing’s changed here,” Dean snorted one Sunday, when they were walking in the woods. Summer had faded fast and autumn had crept up them, and they were shuffling through piles of leaves.

“Well,” Castiel said, “the elementary school is being renovated?”

“Wow. I can barely contain my excitement.”

“Do you miss Boston, then?”

Dean didn’t really have to think about it, but he pretended to mull it over. Then he realized that he didn’t have to hide his answer from Castiel.

“Not really,” he said. “I mean, it was nice to go to college somewhere else, but… I don’t know. I probably wouldn’t have liked to stay there forever.”

“And you came back here.”

Dean shrugged. “Couldn’t leave mom,” he said softly.

Castiel nodded. “She’s a remarkable woman,” he said, his eyes lingering on Dean as if he knew that Dean wanted to say much more but needed a minute.

Dean found himself talking to Castiel, uninterrupted, and revealing how he’d jumped at the chance when the position at the library opened up simply because he couldn’t stand the thought of being away from his family. His mom had been diagnosed with breast cancer a year and half ago, and though she was doing fine right now, Dean had felt uneasy living on the other side of the country. As soon as he’d been done with college, Dean had hopped on the plane and moved back, simply so he could keep an eye on his mom and his dad, who wasn’t taking the situation as well as he claimed he was, if the increased drinking was anything to go by. Sam never said so, but Dean knew that he was worried as well and being so far in college made him uncomfortable. The frequent phone calls and hints at “checking up on dad” told Dean as much.

Castiel simply listened, letting Dean talk and talk and talk, about things and feelings he hadn’t even been aware he needed to talk about. They walked on, with Dean kicking leaves as they went, and Castiel staring at the sky, watching the birds. Their shoulders brushed occasionally, and Castiel’s elbow pressed softly against Dean’s side from time to time.

“This all probably sounds really stupid,” Dean finally mumbled.

“Not at all,” Castiel said. “Loyalty always was one of your defining traits,” he added, silently.

Dean didn’t know what to say to that. They walked on.

 

* * *

 

 

It was the weirdest thing that had ever happened to him, but somehow, Dean found himself being friends with his much older neighbor. It slowly crept up on him, starting from running to each other in the library, then Castiel recommending books to him, then Dean trying to educate Castiel in TV and movies in return, and then, suddenly, Dean realized that they were friends.

Castiel was also the oddest friend he’d ever had. Despite being extremely knowledgeable and funny in a dry way, Castiel had odd spots in his cultural knowledge and sometimes didn’t seem to understand social cues, which frustrated and amused Dean alike. Their dynamic was, oddly enough, based on that: even if Dean wouldn’t have talked about some topics with any of his other friends, Castiel had no reservations about anything and never seemed to judge what Dean had to say, and didn’t even seem to understand why Dean would feel embarrassed to talk about some things.

But there was something else that crept up on Dean, besides the friendship.

There was something about Castiel that attracted Dean, and not only on the intellectual level. Dean pushed it firmly aside at first, but slowly, it became harder to ignore it when he found himself staring at the angle of Castiel’s nose and his jawline, and wondering how it’d feel like to kiss him. When Dean found himself slipping into daydreams of holding Castiel’s hand during movies or wondering what new places he could show Castiel just to see that soft, satisfied smile, he knew he was in trouble. Not because of the attraction, per se – he’d already gone through that stressful phase during first year of college when he’d been struggling with a crush on his roommate Victor – but because being attracted to Castiel, of all people, felt odd. And because Castiel never seemed to notice Dean’s odd pauses when he forgot what he was about to say because he was too busy staring into Castiel’s eyes, Dean firmly ignored the attraction, continuing on the path of their odd friendship.

But he couldn’t help but wonder.

“Cas,” Dean said one late October night, as they were sitting on the living room couch, having watched _Terminator_. (Movie nights never took place at Dean’s small flat, because his TV screen sucked.) “We’re friends, right?”

Castiel turned to look at him, and Dean instantly realized how stupid his question sounded – people usually didn’t need a damn signed contract declaring that they were friends. There was no judgment on Castiel’s face, however, only genuine curiosity.

“Of course,” he said. He picked up his teacup from the coffee table. “Did you doubt that?”

“Not really,” Dean said, scratching his neck when a wave of awkwardness hit him. His coffee had gone cold, and he put the mug back on the table. “Isn’t it weird, though?”

“Hm?”

“You’re so much older than me, dude. You’ve probably known me when I was still wetting my pants.”

“Probably,” Castiel smiled cryptically.

Sudden uneasiness rolled over Dean. He had actually no idea how old Castiel really was. Castiel had said absolutely nothing about his childhood or how he’d even arrived to the town in the first place, or, hell, if he’d been born here and never left. He’d never even mentioned his birthday. Dean had never pried, because he’d thought it might be a sore spot or something, but now he found himself wondering.

“Cas,” Dean finally asked, “how old are you?”

Castiel shifted uncomfortably; if Dean hadn’t known him so well at this point, the awkwardness would’ve gone completely unnoticed.

“That’s a… hard question to answer.”

“It’s fairly simple. You’re born, you age, you die. So, how old are you?”

Castiel looked like he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. It was a strange expression on him. “Right now? Thirty-five, I suppose.”

“…you suppose?”

“I don’t really remember,” Castiel said.

That was a strange answer, and Dean mistook it for a joke at first. Then he noticed how Castiel was fiddling his teacup awkwardly – a nervous gesture he very well remembered.

“Dude, you can’t be thirty-five,” Dean suddenly said. “You were an old man when I first saw you.”

“All adults look old to children.”

“Yeah, but, no, see… My mom brought me here to trick or treat when I was five, I remember that. You gave me a chocolate bar.” Dean looked straight at Castiel now, perplexed. “You should’ve been twenty, then.”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t look twenty. There’s no way you were twenty back then.”

“Thirty, then.”

“No, Cas, really—” Dean stopped, and really looked at Castiel. Castiel met his gaze calmly, although he was still fiddling with the teacup, tapping a fast rhythm on the rim of the cup. Dean’s eyes wandered on the wrinkles and lines on his face, the pattern of his stubble, the eerie blue glow of his eyes.

The eerie blue _glow_ of his eyes.

“Cas,” Dean whispered, “what… what are you?”

Castiel didn’t answer with words; instead, he put his teacup down, the shakiness of his hands now gone. There was a long silence that stretched between them, and Dean noted how calm and deep Castiel’s breathing had gone. The blue glow in Cas’s eyes became slowly more pronounced, and then, suddenly, Dean noticed that there were dimly glowing outlines in the air around Castiel. The lines pulsed with light, like blood vessels, and as Dean tracked the lines, he suddenly understood the pattern they made in the air.

Wings. Two enormous wings, made out of pure light, filled the room.

“Holy fuck,” Dean mumbled. “I knew you were a witch.”

“I’m not—”

“Angel, witch, whatever, you’ve got magic powers.”

“I never said that,” Castiel said, but his lips twitched.

“Do you?”

“Maybe,” Castiel said. The glow of his eyes started to fade, and the wings slowly disappeared. The shadow image stayed in Dean’s eyes, and he blinked when the room suddenly dimmed.

“What are you?” Dean repeated, quietly this time.

“I’m your guardian angel.”

“Why… You—” Dean took a breath. “You didn’t tell me.”

“You had to ask the right questions, Dean,” Castiel said. He looked away. “I couldn’t just spring the truth on you like that. You wouldn’t have believed me.”

“Maybe I would’ve.”

“You wouldn’t have, Dean,” Castiel said, and he actually snorted, amused at something. “We’ve gone this through many times before.”

“Many times,” Dean repeated. “Many… many times? Why don’t I remember?”

Now there was definitely amusement in Castiel’s eyes. “You can’t recall your previous lives, Dean.”

Somehow, that was the hardest part to swallow out of everything Dean had suddenly learned.

“Previous—” Dean took a breath. “You’re telling me that… we’re born again?”

“Of course.”

“And you… you’ve stayed with me all this time?” Dean asked. “Why?”

“It’s my duty to guard you.” Castiel’s eyes were fond as he looked at Dean, eyes shining so warmly that he must’ve been seeing something completely else than just the physical form of Dean. “I cradled your soul when you first came into being, Dean. I’ve seen you take your first steps, love and have your heart broken, fight and die, born again and take your first steps again, with a fraction of more knowledge than before. It’s a privilege to remain by your side, Dean.”

For a while, Dean couldn’t say a thing. He stared at Castiel, in awe, and Castiel stared back, oddly in similar awe.

“Do all guardian angels stay this close to their, uh…”

“Charges,” Castiel said. “No.”

“Then…”

For the first time, Castiel looked slightly uncomfortable. He shifted and glanced elsewhere. “I fell for you.”

“What?” Dean’s heart just about stopped.

“Guardian angels are supposed to observe their charges from afar, only intervening when it is vital. When we come down to Earth, we aren’t meant to stay.”

“You did.”

“You asked me to.”

Dean bit his lip. There was an enormous underlying weight in Castiel’s words. “Do you regret that?”

Castiel’s eyes glowed. “I’ve loved you for centuries, Dean. I will never regret that.”

Dean’s heartbeat turned thunderous, the sound of it flooding his ears. Castiel glanced at him.

“Are you afraid?”

“No,” Dean said. He smiled. “Now I know I can do this.”

He leaned in and kissed Castiel, unafraid and happy. Castiel let out a surprised gasp, but then it turned into a happy moan, and he threw his hands around Dean’s shoulders, pulling Dean instantly closer. Dean laughed into the kiss, the joy so instant that it almost felt like it spilled over. Castiel kissed him like a drowning man desperate for breath, and Dean let himself be pushed, holding Castiel tightly as they fell back on the couch. The armrest dug into Dean’s back, and his torso was twisted in an awkward angle, but he didn’t care; he was right where he belonged, in Castiel’s arms.

They eventually corrected their positions, and kissing became slower, until it mellowed into a chaste press of lips against cheeks. The silence between became comfortable, until they were nearly dozing off.

“So,” Dean said at some point, “you don’t age.”

“I’m an angel,” Castiel huffed. “Even if I’m cut off from Heaven, that doesn’t mean that I’m human. I won’t age or die. And I still have my duty to guard you.”

“Aren’t you homesick?” Dean asked, quietly.

Cas didn’t answer for a while. “Not when I’m with you,” he said. “You are home to me.”

Dean thought back to the Castiel he’d known as a child, the many years he hadn’t cared an ounce for the man, and a flicker of guilt went through him.

“Cas,” Dean softly said, “Have you been just watching me for all these… years?”

Castiel smiled; it was tight and carried all the pain he must’ve endured, all throughout the years from watching Dean afar.

“Dean, I’ve stayed with you for hundreds of centuries. I’ve lived several mortal lives with you. Sometimes, there was no time to get to know you. In others, you didn’t want to know me. Waiting for a few years is nothing for me.”

Dean ducked his head, guiltily. “Is that why you have all this… stuff?” What he meant was, _Are these all mementoes from our past lives?_

Castiel smiled. “I’ve told you before, Dean. I keep things for the memories they represent.” He pressed a kiss on Dean’s lips. “And I could never throw away gifts from you.”

That surprised Dean into laughter. “You’re—you’re telling me _I_ gave you those books?”

Castiel merely smiled and kissed him in reply. Happily, Dean answered the kiss, and they lingered in the feel of it for a while. Upstairs, the old pendulum clock started to ring, and in the back of his mind, Dean registered that it must’ve been already midnight.

“When you said you used to be a magician in previous life,” Dean said, “you meant that literally, didn’t you?”

“I was talking about you,” Castiel said. “But I couldn’t let you know at that point…”

“I was a magician,” Dean breathed. “What else?”

“Before that?” Castiel murmured softly against his skin. “You were a carpenter. Norwegian. Your wife was really beautiful.”

“What else?”

“You were an Uyghur girl. You died very young.”

“Before that.”

“You were a monk. Sam was a brother in the covenant, too.” Dean snorted at that. “Your mother was a fisher in the nearby village, and your father was his daughter. They often bought the wine you made.”

“Makes my head spin,” Dean muttered. “Do… do all souls stay together like that?”

“Some souls do,” Castiel said. “Some ties can’t be broken. They might be stretched, or they might be altered, but… they can’t be broken.”

“Is that how you always manage to find me?” Dean asked, quietly.

Castiel smiled. “I’ve never lost you.”

Recalling the first time he consciously remembered meeting Cas, Dean started to smile. October was nearly over, and the clock had struck twelve by now, so it was already the 31st; it was a fitting day, then, and so, he nudged Cas. All this time, Castiel had been working his magic for Dean. The nature of it didn’t matter – his charm lied further than that.

“Hey, Cas.”

“Hm?”

“Trick or treat?”

Castiel laughed. “I think you’ve seen all of my tricks by now, Dean.”

“No tricks, then,” Dean whispered. Castiel smiled at him.

“Only treats for you,” he whispered back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you managed to read this far, thank you! This is silly fic, but the idea's been in my head for a while, and Halloween seemed like the... well, not perfect, but, uh, appropriate time to post this. Thank you for reading.


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